


In keen and quivering ratio

by lbmisscharlie



Series: Short Skirts and Car Rides [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/F, Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-07
Updated: 2011-09-07
Packaged: 2017-10-23 12:18:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbmisscharlie/pseuds/lbmisscharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/11848.html?thread=59917384#t59917384">this</a> prompt at the kinkmeme asking for rarepair minifills.</p><p>Anthea's one of the first on the scene when shots are fired at the British Museum. Could be considered a coda to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/247177">Expert Fingers</a>, if one liked angst after their porn.</p><p><i>Delicate, spectral fragments of long-dead artisans and emperors, and Soo Lin was their keeper, their knight, their protector – in the shadows once more.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	In keen and quivering ratio

She is one of the first on the scene, alerted by Sherlock’s usual tail of the gunshots fired in the museum. Ascertains that Sherlock and, with him, John are both unharmed and reports back to Mycroft. The job comes first; it always does and she’s very good at it.

That’s something they had in common. They’d both held something fragile, timeless, something greater than themselves, something on the edge of history, in their blood-beating palms. Felt the import of it, felt their tiny, indistinguishable mark on history. It’s what places Anthea in the line of fire, compels her to toe diplomatic lines, obliges her to produce incidences and accidents of dubious morality. It’s how Soo Lin pulled herself out of the front lines, how she disappeared and remade herself.

Delicate, spectral fragments of long-dead artisans and emperors, and Soo Lin was their keeper, their knight, their protector – in the shadows once more.

She’s crumpled on the floor, half-hidden, body drawn up in fear. Anthea kneels, draws her out, hands shaking against still-warm flesh. She straightens her dress, smooth silk over her thighs, and leans down to where one shoe has slipped off.

Lifting her heel she sees the mark that’s killed her. Faded now, over years of tread, of forceful forget, its sinuous black lines feathered out. She traces one finger over it but the ink’s too old, no texture remains. With a shaky sigh, she slides Soo Lin’s shoe back on.

She forces herself, now, to look up to her face. No demure fluttering of eyelashes, no coy smile, no soft gasp of ecstasy. Her face is a mask of pain and fear; a terror that spoke to her will to live. That will had gotten her out of the tortuous embrace of a mob, half a world away into a new life. It had brought her into the darkness, refusing to run once more.

Anthea wishes she had known, had some idea of Soo Lin’s involvement in this. She would have stolen her away herself, stashed her in a safe house in an obscure Central American country, gone to her when it was finally safe. She would have had someone who could make her feel at once alive and at peace.

Instead, she has this: eyes wide and staring, mouth clenched shut to swallow a scream, and one perfect, hideous crimson hole in her forehead.

She closes her eyelids with shaking fingers then lifts one cool, slim, strong hand. A hand that had known every crack and fissure of clay, that had cradled each artefact, suffused them with love, warmed them with tea. A hand that had ghosted across skin, that had pressed and touched and caressed. A hand that could bring Anthea to her knees, shatter her apart, then place every fragment back together.

She kissed the fingertips and said her goodbyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Emily Dickinson’s _For Each Ecstatic Instant_ :
> 
> For each ecstatic instant  
> We must an anguish pay  
> In keen and quivering ratio  
> To the ecstasy.
> 
> For each beloved hour  
> Sharp pittances of years,  
> Bitter contested farthings  
> And coffers heaped with tears.


End file.
